Sherlock
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: His name was like a mantra on John's lips, as if saying it could bring back the one he missed most. Post-Reichenbach. Canon. Spoilers for Season Two. I know it's longish, which a lot of people seem to bypass longer stories, but... you know me. Give it a shot.


**"Sherlock"**

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**Note: I usually don't say things as this, but for this story, I highly recommend _Losing Your Memory _or _Prepared to Do Anything_ (Sherlock Series Two Sountrack) as background music as you read this. It sets the mood so well. Of course, it's up to you, but I highly suggest it.**

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_"Sherlock!"_

John woke up with a shout, with something unintelligible and _definitely_ not Sherlock's name on his lips. The muffled word that he had been trying to say, no doubt, had brought him so much pain over the past week. His dreams had been haunting him the past week, repeating the same nightmare over and over: his friend, the building, the fall, the blood. The lack of pulse, the lack of breath, the lack of quicksilver eyes and even quicker deductions. The confessions, or lack thereof, words minced and overused during one last conversation.

John desperately tried not to think about how the last conversation, the last _real_ face-to-face conversation, had been an argument. He had been scared. He had been worried. There had been true terror right in front of eyes. He had turned to Sherlock for the same reaction; they were all friends here, regardless of what Sherlock said. Sherlock had failed him. Sherlock had said the wrong word one time too many and John had felt every ounce of bitter anger well up at once- the anger and the panic and the fear and the worry, and John had walked out on Sherlock for the last time in his life.

If only John had knew. If only...

He clenched his fingers into fists and slumped back against his headboard. It's been like this, for exactly one week. Except it's worse today, because it's Sherlock's funeral.

He felt everything building up inside, _everything_ that has been pressing down on him lately, waiting to explode. He doesn't know when or even if it will, but he hopes that he's somewhere private when it does.

It's an ugly monster, this pain, and he doesn't want anyone else to witness it.

He had made it through Sherlock's viewing easily enough. He had been allowed to stand as, well, part of Sherlock's family, really. It had been Mycroft's doing, John was assured, but he appreciated the gesture much more than Sherlock's brother could ever realize.

He hadn't cried, not a tear, during the thing. There hadn't been many people, not the one-thousand, eight-hundred and ninety-five people that had visited his blog in a period of only hours, that was for sure. It was the people, some people, that Sherlock had solved cases for. The people that still believed, or at least wanted to give some sort of respect to the dead detective.

It had been a lot of thanking, a lot of handsakes, a lot of hugs, a lot of back and forth from the rest area for coffee, because John hadn't been sleeping, a lot of nostalgia, a lot of tears on some people's behalf, and a lot of sentimentality. Sherlock would have been appalled.

Due to the events at the viewing, John didn't expect many at the funeral. He was right- there were even less.

The whole thing went fine. (John didn't hear a word.)

And then, it was his turn to speak. He had no idea why he was putting himself in such a position, but it had felt right. John was, as Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson had said, the one person who really understood the true Sherlock Holmes.

"Um, well, Sherlock," he started, rummaging a bit with his papers. He had written it all out, had a set plan, but now it felt too rehearsed and too stiff. "Where does one begin with Sherlock Holmes?" he mused, abandoning the mismatched stack of papers beneath his fingers. "He was... egocentric. Cold. A bit mad." He frowned; he was focusing on everything bad about Sherlock. While Sherlock had had many bad qualities, it was true, he also had good ones.

"But he was a great man," he continued. Lestrade, who was sitting somewhere in the middle between Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft, seemed to deflate at his words. John felt a surge of anger, all anger and nothing more, red hot and burning, towards Lestrade. But it diminished as quickly as it came and he was surprised to find his eyes starting to burn; he blinked it away before it could turn into something terrible. "He was always willing... well, sometimes, anyway, to help out those who needed it. He went out of his way to... to prove he was right sometimes, yeah, but, he really did help people out. Without knowing it sometimes... He didn't understand how he could make people feel, but he did a lot of... helping people. Saving them from, from whatever was bothering them, really."

He was talking about himself. Oh God, he was talking about himself. He couldn't do that. He couldn't bring himself up in Sherlock's eulogy. But Sherlock had saved him... Sherlock didn't even know what he had done, but Sherlock had saved John.

"And for those of us who still believe, _really believe_, because he was _not_ a fake, we need to remember that. We need to thank him for that, because he didn't get a lot of that, you know? He liked what he did and that's what kept him going back to it, not because people were genuinely pleased. Because people didn't _tell_ him that they were pleased. Not that he liked the praise..." that earned a few nods here and there- "but for what he didn't get to hear before, he can hear it now. You were a great person, Sherlock-" he suddenly wished he had a large glass of wine right now, for multiple reasons- "despite your... stupid eccentricities and I want you to know... wherever you are... that you will be sorely missed. London won't be the same without their one and only consulting detective... It never will..." he trailed off.

He was unconsciously getting into deeper territory, something that he had been purposefully not exploring. It was something that set an aching, a terrible aching, into his heart. The pain spread, the same pain that he had had upon experiencing watching Sherlock fall, but different, attacking different parts of his body. His legs felt weak. He felt close to collapse.

He wasn't a stranger to this pain. Just not at this magnitude.

He gave a little nod before exiting the position behind the podium, striding back to his seat next to Mrs. Hudson. She was crying- she cried a lot; all the little things set her off- as she patted his shoulder. He awkwardly accepted the consoling and pulled her into a one-armed hug.

He felt wretched for what he was about to do to her.

He was leaving 221B Baker Street. He had decided it the first night. It had been too quiet, too... too everything. He was just waiting until after this, after Sherlock's final goodbye. He hadn't brought it up to Mrs. Hudson yet; he hadn't been able to bring himself to tell her that her only other boy was going to say goodbye, too. He couldn't imagine the pain that it would bring. Actually, he could. That's why he was avoiding the final confrontation. But, he had been slowly packing away some of his things, and he almost suspected that Mrs. Hudson had begun to guess at the reason.

The rest of the funeral went off without a hitch. (John didn't hear any more of it than he had before his speech.)

He was fine until the congregation was filing up to say their final goodbyes to the closed casket. He was fine until his turn.

He purposefully waited until the end, at well as he could despite from family, to file up. It was something more private than he cared to share with anyone more than he had to.

He stared at the casket for a long moment. He was out of words now. Really, he didn't think anything was to be said, but there had to be something, some final-

"Goodbye."

The word fell off his lips before he had given it a conscious thought.

And everything shattered from there.

The pain redoubled suddenly; he clutched onto Sherlock's casket for support before his vision blurred and he could see the casket no longer. He blinked; his vision cleared, and his cheeks were suddenly host to many still-unshed tears. They fell fast and heavy, hot against his hands where they exploded against his skin. Each tear was a manifestation of something, of something dreadful that John had been hiding away to himself.

Pain.

Loss.

Regret.

Sorrow.

Loneliness.

Everything that he should have said, everything that he did say, and everything that he didn't was pounding in his ears over the soft pattern his tears were making as they fell. He had left so many stones unturned... _They_ had left so many stones unturned.

His tears turned into sobs at one point; he didn't know when but he became conscious that that abnormal noises he was hearing were coming from _him_. He couldn't stop it. His hands were clenched tightly around Sherlock's casket; it was the only thing keeping him up or he would have been on his knees and sobbing in front of the solid reminder of his friend's death. He had seen so much, _so_ much, during his days of war, but _nothing_ brushed this amount of pain. He had only been in this amount of pain one time, one other time, and that had been when he had been dy-

_Don't you dare think about yourself, John Watson,_ a voice chastised in his head, and it was right, it was Sherlock's funeral, it was Sherlock's day.

"Sherlock..." he mumbled, the name a saving grace on his tongue. "Sherlock, Sherlock... Sherlock..." he chanted, as though saying the name would bring back the one he so dearly missed.

He dropped his forehead against the smooth, cool texture of the casket. He squeezed his eyes shut and, for five wonderful seconds, imagined he was back in Baker Street and Sherlock was being his usual sulky self on the couch. But the vision cleared and John reopened his eyes to find his tears trekking silently down Sherlock's casket but he couldn't raise his head yet.

"Sherlock..." he breathed again, almost a pleading note to the name. The name, _his_ name. Sherlock's name...

Skipping out on the burial part of the funeral, John realized, made him look like a bit not good of a person. However, with Mycroft's voiced-once command to go home, plus the crushing fact that John didn't know if his mental health could stand up throughout it, he didn't feel like bothering with a public image.

He'd gotten a ride from Mycroft (rather, one of Mycroft's many sleek cars and an assistant took him home). Having managed to find his own way up to his bedroom, he collapsed onto the duvet with a shaky sigh. Well, today had certainly gone badly. After things had gone so well at the viewing... He scrubbed his hands across his face. Shower. He needed a shower. A nice, hot shower...

Oh, God. He didn't want to move.

He definitely didn't need to get into that habit, now. If he gave into that, he'd spiral into something so deep and dark that he wouldn't see the light of day for awhile.

John sat up again, reversing his agenda as he trudged to the bathroom. It was weird. Slightly. How different the flat looked. He'd been here for a week, without Sherlock, and it hadn't even looked this desolate. The final breaking point had changed something within him, and within the things he had gotten used to. He had gotten used to the things that had meant something, that didn't anymore. Take the hat, for example. It was just a hat now. A momento of Sherlock, true, but just a hat. The violin was just a reminder of the music that wouldn't be played anymore. The experiments were just annoying, still there, but cluttersome, and only hazardous at best with no one to take care of them.

John's fingers pulled at his tie irritably, tossing it onto the countertop. He didn't understand how Sherlock could wear this dry-clean only stuff _everyday_, the whole shebang with the suit and tie. For all of his uncares in the world, Sherlock didn't seem like one to wear suits everyday.

John shed the jacket, the pressed white shirt, stepping out of his shoes and socks and dress trousers. He caught his reflection in the mirror and blinked slowly, assessing not only himself but the surroundings reflected in the mirror. This would be the last time he could see himself here. Rather, the last time he _would_.

Everything was just a bit different. Just a bit more clear. He ran his fingers over the tiles of the shower wall after repositioning the shower head. This would be the last time that he stood between these walls. God, there were so many memories.

John closed his eyes, relishing in the hot water unlocking his tense muscles. It had been a terrible day. The second worse in his life, in fact. The first would stand as the day that he watched his best friend plunge to his death. It would _always_ stand as the worst day in John's life.

If someone had told him, two years ago, that he was going to have to suffer through a period of time worse than the war, he would have said that they were mad. Who, in the presence of war, could imagine a reality worse than that? Surrounded by the deaths of unknown innocents, it was a terrible reality. But, when John was surrounded by memories of being around death of not only an innocent, but _the_ best friend he could ask for, it was an even worse reality. That may have been a bit shallow to think that way, but...

John opened his eyes, blinking water from his eyelashes. He needed to stop thinking about that. He needed to stop thinking that way. He needed to stop thinking only of his loss. He needed to be grateful for what he had had, not mourn for what had been taken away. He rest his cheek against the cool tile of the wall. If only doing that were as easy as thinking it.

John managed to get out of 221B without many more shed tears. Heartache was prominent, of course, but he was slowly getting used to that. Weeks went by. Nothing changed, except the fact that Sherlock was fading away under the public's eye. They all saw him as a fraud, except for a singular few, and John was admittingly glad when the press turned their attention to something else besides the shocking suicide.

Nothing changed. John still kept Sherlock updated on all of everything that happened to him or around him. The only difference, because he had received a lot of silence when he had talked to him, anyway, was that he was talking to a stone instead of a person.

There were a lot of things still left unsaid. There were a lot of things that he had refused to say. To say them would make them real, would make the whole thing real. John had been desperately trying to avoid those things. But it was about time that he really told Sherlock what was on his mind. Three weeks, Sherlock would have said, was way too long to hold onto something so dull as saying unheard words to a dead person.

John was a man of sentiment- it hadn't taken the eighteen months with Sherlock to prove that. He loved people- at least the people who really impacted his life. He loved his family, problems aside. He loved his friends, issues overlooked. He loved Sherlock, dead or alive.

But there was something about talking to a tombstone. Correction, actually, there was something immensely awkward about final confessions and desperate wishes to a tombstone. Talking about his day was one thing. Saying what was on his mind was another.

He didn't know how to say it.

"Um..." he started unproductively, glancing over his shoulder. Mrs. Hudson had gone back towards the entrance. It wasn't as though he minded Mrs. Hudson, God knew he loved her like a mother, but... he just wasn't sure if he could say this with someone listening.

"You told me once... that you weren't a hero. Um, there were times I didn't even think you were human," he muttered, a bit with a flash of irritation for the troubled moments that he had had with his flatmate, "but let me tell you this: you were the..." There was an unconditional pause in his words as he thought the rest of what was to be said. It shouldn't be so difficult. It shouldn't have been so difficult to admit what Sherlock had meant to him. "... best man and the most human... human being," he supplied lamely, shaking his head. He was a writer of sorts, a blogger, and yet, at one of the most important times, words were failing him. How ridiculous he was. How pathetic. "... that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. So... there," he finished in a bit of defiance. He wouldn't believe it. He never would. He would hit his death bed before he would _think_ of believing it. If he was the last person to believe in Sherlock, he didn't care. He would. Forever. Unconditionally.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much." He spoke the words slowly, listening to each and feeling the weight of each word on his tongue. He hadn't spoken the truth out loud. Not since he'd realized it. He had never told Sherlock...

"But, please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't... be... dead." And past his sentiment on telling Sherlock just how grateful he was, those latter three words brought a whole new issue of emotion that John had been almost sure he had gotten by. "Would you do that? Just for me. Just stop it. Stop this."

His tight grip on the emotion lessened, just for that instant, with those words, those words that meant so much and said so much at the same time. The tears stung his eyes again and, then he was realizing how foolish he was to wish Sherlock back, back from the _dead_. Sherlock had been extraordinary, in almost every sense of the word, but not even Sherlock Holmes could come back from the dead. John was foolish. He was so stupid...

He pressed his fingers against his eyes, blocking his view of his own reflection in Sherlock's glimmering tombstone. He couldn't open up to anybody, not even his own reflection. Except, there had been one person. Just one.

Sherlock.

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**This marks my 100th story on Fanfiction. I suppose I should have done something happier. But I wanted to go for a longer-length fic, and wanting to test my skills in angst, it had to be Post-Reichenbach. I was... somewhat ashamedly... sobbing when I was writing this. During differents parts. It might just be me, emotional person as I am, though. I wonder if I got anyone else at least misty-eyed. **

**I didn't plan for the end to overlap with the end of the episode, it just... felt right. My title is uncreative, but I felt like there was nothing, _nothing_, except our detective's name that would fit the ticket.**

**I'm going to stop rambling. I hope you enjoyed it (to the extent that we all only can). Reviews are great, since I feel my forte is definitely not angst. Thank you.**

**As usual, I don't own _Sherlock_, although I gave my story the same name (albeit with quotes around it). **


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